THE  OLD   MANSE 


THE 


OLD  MANSE 


BY 


NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE 


The  'T^iyerside  *Press 
1904 


Copyright  1904  by  Houghton,  Mifflin  &  Co. 
All  rights  reserved 


HAWTHORNE'S  talent  for  descriptive 
writing  was  never  exercised  upon  a 
happier  theme  than  the  Old  Clause 
at  Concord,  ^^Massachusetts.  Built  in 
1765  by  Emerson's  grandfather,  Wil 
liam,  the  patriot  chaplain  who  per 
ished  early  in  the  Revolution,  the  par 
sonage  passed  after  his  death  into  the 
hands  of  'Dr.  Ezra  Ripley,  who  mar 
ried  William  Emerson's  widow  and 
succeeded  him  in  the  pastorate.  It 
is  still  in  the  possession  of  the  Rip- 
ley  family.  At  three  different  periods 
it  was  the  temporary  home  of  Ralph 
Waldo  Emerson,  who  wrote  his  tr^a- 
ture '  in  the  small  back  room  upon  the 
second  story,  looking  out  upon  the  river, 
v 


the  ^l^orth  Bridge,  and  the  battlefield. 
When  Hawthorne  married  Sophia  Pea- 
body  in  July,  1842,  they  took  up  their 
abode  in  the  Old  ^I4anse9  which  had 
stood  vacant  since  the  death  of  'Dr. 
Ripley.  Here  they  passed  three  years 
of  idyllic  happiness.  Their  Jirst  child 
was  born  in  the  Old  <*JManse,  and  here 
were  written  many  of  the  well-known 
pieces  included  in  the  collection  enti 
tled  '^losses  from  an  Old  ^Jfrlanse.' 
The  ancient  homestead  fascinated  the 
imagination  both  of  Hawthorne  and 
his  wife,  and  there  are  many  passages 
in  their  letters  and  journals  describing 
the  Eden-like  surroundings  of  the  new 
^Adam  and  Eve,  as  the  happy  young 
couple  loved  to  call  themselves.  When 
Hawthorne  came  to  write  an  introduc 
tory  paper  for  his  '<*JI4osses>  he  gath- 
vi 


JVbfe 

ered  these  impressions  into  one  of  the 
most  perfect  of  his  descriptive  essays.  It 
is  this  essay  which  is  reprinted  here. 

B.P. 

4    PARK    STREET. 


Vll 


THE  OLD   MANSE 


THE  OLD  MANSE 

BETWEEN  two  tall  gateposts  of 
rough- hewn  stone  (the  gate 
itself  having  fallen  from  its  hinges 
at  some  unknown  epoch )  we  beheld 
the  gray  front  of  the  old  parsonage 
terminating  the  vista  of  an  avenue  of 
black  ash-trees.  It  was  now  a  twelve 
month  since  the  funeral  procession  of 
the  venerable  clergyman,  its  last  in 
habitant,  had  turned  from  that  gate 
way  towards  the  village  burying- 
ground.  The  wheel- track  leading  to 
the  door,  as  well  as  the  whole  breadth 
of  the  avenue,  was  almost  overgrown 
with  grass,  affording  dainty  mouth- 
fuls  to  two  or  three  vagrant  cows  and 
an  old  white  horse  who  had  his  own 


The  Old<Jt4anse 

living  to  pick  up  along  the  roadside. 
The  glimmering  shadows  that  lay 
half  asleep  between  the  door  of  the 
house  and  the  public  highway  were 
a  kind  of  spiritual  medium,  seen 
through  which  the  edifice  had  not 
quite  the  aspect  of  belonging  to  the 
material  world.  Certainly  it  had  lit 
tle  in  common  with  those  ordinary 
abodes  which  stand  so  imminent  upon 
the  road  that  every  passer-by  can 
thrust  his  head,  as  it  were,  into  the 
domestic  circle.  From  these  quiet 
windows  the  figures  of  passing  trav 
ellers  looked  too  remote  and  dim  to 
disturb  the  sense  of  privacy.  In  its 
near  retirement  and  accessible  seclu 
sion  it  was  the  very  spot  for  the  resi 
dence  of  a  clergyman,  —  a  man  not 
estranged  from  human  life,  yet  en- 
4 


The  Old  Cla 

veloped  in  the  midst  of  it  with  a  veil 
woven  of  intermingled  gloom  and 
brightness.  It  was  worthy  to  have 
been  one  of  the  time-honored  parson 
ages  of  England  in  which,  through 
many  generations,  a  succession  of 
holy  occupants  pass  from  youth  to 
age,  and  bequeath  each  an  inher 
itance  of  sanctity  to  pervade  the 
house  and  hover  over  it  as  with  an 
atmosphere. 

Nor,  in  truth,  had  the  Old  Manse 
ever  been  profaned  by  a  lay  occu 
pant  until  that  memorable  summer 
afternoon  when  I  entered  it  as  my 
home.  A  priest  had  built  it ;  a  priest 
had  succeeded  to  it ;  other  priestly 
men  from  time  to  time  had  dwelt  in 
it ;  and  children  born  in  its  cham 
bers  had  grown  up  to  assume  the 
5 


The 

priestly  character.  It  was  awful  to 
reflect  how  many  sermons  must 
have  been  written  there.  The  latest 
inhabitant  alone  —  he  by  whose 
translation  to  paradise  the  dwelling 
was  left  vacant — had  penned  nearly 
three  thousand  discourses,  besides 
the  better,  if  not  the  greater,  num 
ber  that  gushed  living  from  his  lips. 
How  often,  no  doubt,  had  he  paced 
to  and  fro  along  the  avenue,  attun 
ing  his  meditations  to  the  sighs  and 
gentle  murmurs,  and  deep  and  sol 
emn  peals  of  the  wind  among  the 
lofty  tops  of  the  trees  !  In  that  vari 
ety  of  natural  utterances  he  could 
find  something  accordant  with  every 
passage  of  his  sermon,  were  it  of 
tenderness  or  reverential  fear.  The 
boughs  over  my  head  seemed  shad- 
6 


The  Old  Clause 

owy  with  solemn  thoughts  as  well 
as  with  rustling  leaves.  I  took  shame 
to  myself  for  having  been  so  long  a 
writer  of  idle  stories,  and  ventured 
to  hope  that  wisdom  would  descend 
upon  me  with  the  falling  leaves  of 
the  avenue,  and  that  I  should  light 
upon  an  intellectual  treasure  in  the 
Old  Manse  well  worth  those  hoards 
of  long-hidden  gold  which  people 
seek  for  in  moss-grown  houses. 
Profound  treatises  of  morality;  a 
layman's  unprofessional  and  there 
fore  unprejudiced  views  of  religion ; 
histories  (such  as  Bancroft  might 
have  written  had  he  taken  up  his 
abode  here  as  he  once  proposed) 
bright  with  picture,  gleaming  over  a 
depth  of  philosophic  thought, — these 
were  the  works  that  might  fitly  have 
7 


The  Old<JI4anse 

flowed  from  such  a  retirement.  In 
the  humblest  event  I  resolved  at 
least  to  achieve  a  novel  that  should 
evolve  some  deep  lesson  and  should 
possess  physical  substance  enough 
to  stand  alone. 

In  furtherance  of  my  design,  and 
as  if  to  leave  me  no  pretext  for  not 
fulfilling  it,  there  was  in  the  rear  of 
the  house  the  most  delightful  little 
nook  of  a  study  that  ever  afforded 
its  snug  seclusion  to  a  scholar.  It 
was  here  that  Emerson  wrote  T^z- 
ture ;  for  he  was  then  an  inhabit 
ant  of  the  Manse,  and  used  to  watch 
the  Assyrian  dawn  and  Paphian  sun 
set  and  moonrise  from  the  summit 
of  our  eastern  hill.  When  I  first 
saw  the  room  its  walls  were  black 
ened  with  the  smoke  of  unnumbered 
8 


The  Old<Jt4anse 

years,  and  made  still  blacker  by 
the  grim  prints  of  Puritan  ministers 
that  hung  around.  These  worthies 
looked  strangely  like  bad  angels,  or 
at  least  like  men  who  had  wrestled 
so  continually  and  so  sternly  with 
the  devil  that  somewhat  of  his  sooty 
fierceness  had  been  imparted  to  their 
own  visages.  They  had  all  vanished 
now;  a  cheerful  coat  of  paint  and  gol 
den  tinted  paper-hangings  lighted 
up  the  small  apartment ;  while  the 
shadow  of  a  willow-tree  that  swept 
against  the  overhanging  eaves  at 
tempered  the  cheery  western  sun 
shine.  In  place  of  the  grim  prints 
there  was  the  sweet  and  lovely  head 
of  one  of  Raphael's  Madonnas,  and 
two  pleasant  little  pictures  of  the 
Lake  of  Como.  The  only  other  deco- 


The  Old<JI4anse 

rations  were  a  purple  vase  of  flow 
ers,  always  fresh,  and  a  bronze 
one  containing  graceful  ferns.  My 
books  ( few,  and  by  no  means  choice ; 
for  they  were  chiefly  such  waifs  as 
chance  had  thrown  in  my  way)  stood 
in  order  about  the  room,  seldom  to 
be  disturbed. 

The  study  had  three  windows,  set 
with  little,  old-fashioned  panes  of 
glass,  each  with  a  crack  across  it. 
The  two  on  the  western  side  looked, 
or  rather  peeped,  between  the  wil 
low  branches  down  into  the  orchard, 
with  glimpses  of  the  river  through 
the  trees.  The  third,  facing  north 
ward,  commanded  a  broader  view 
of  the  river  at  a  spot  where  its  hith 
erto  obscure  waters  gleam  forth  into 
the  light  of  history.  It  was  at  this 
10 


The  Old<JI4anse 

window  that  the  clergyman  who  then 
dwelt  in  the  Manse  stood  watching 
the  outbreak  of  a  long  and  deadly 
struggle  between  two  nations ;  he 
saw  the  irregular  array  of  his  pa 
rishioners  on  the  farther  side  of  the 
river  and  the  glittering  line  of  the 
British  on  the  hither  bank.  He 
awaited  in  an  agony  of  suspense  the 
rattle  of  the  musketry.  It  came,  and 
there  needed  but  a  gentle  wind  to 
sweep  the  battle  smoke  around  this 
quiet  house. 

Perhaps  the  reader,  whom  I  can 
not  help  considering  as  my  guest  in 
the  Old  Manse  and  entitled  to  all 
courtesy  in  the  way  of  sight-show 
ing, —  perhaps  he  will  choose  to  take 
a  nearer  view  of  the  memorable 
spot.  We  stand  now  on  the  river's 
11 


The  Old  Clause 

brink.  It  may  well  be  called  the 
Concord,  the  river  of  peace  and  qui 
etness  ;  for  it  is  certainly  the  most 
unexcitable  and  sluggish  stream  that 
ever  loitered  imperceptibly  towards 
its  eternity  —  the  sea.  Positively, 
I  had  lived  three  weeks  beside  it 
before  it  grew  quite  clear  to  my 
perception  which  way  the  current 
flowed.  It  never  has  a  vivacious  as 
pect  except  when  a  northwestern 
breeze  is  vexing  its  surface  on  a 
sunshiny  day.  From  the  incurable 
indolence  of  its  nature,  the  stream  is 
happily  incapable  of  becoming  the 
slave  of  human  ingenuity,  as  is  the 
fate  of  so  many  a  wild,  free  moun 
tain  torrent.  While  all  things  else 
are  compelled  to  subserve  some  use 
ful  purpose,  it  idles  its  sluggish  life 
12 


The  Old  Cla 

away  in  lazy  liberty,  without  turn 
ing  a  solitary  spindle  or  affording 
even  water-power  enough  to  grind 
the  corn  that  grows  upon  its  banks. 
The  torpor  of  its  movement  allows 
it  nowhere  a  bright,  pebbly  shore, 
nor  so  much  as  a  narrow  strip  of 
glistening  sand,  in  any  part  of  its 
course.  It  slumbers  between  broad 
prairies,  kissing  the  long  meadow 
grass,  and  bathes  the  overhanging 
boughs  of  elder  bushes  and  willows 
or  the  roots  of  elms  and  ash-trees 
and  clumps  of  maples.  Flags  and 
rushes  grow  along  its  plashy  shore ; 
the  yellow  water-lily  spreads  its 
broad,  flat  leaves  on  the  margin; 
and  the  fragrant  white  pond -lily 
abounds,  generally  selecting  a  posi 
tion  just  so  far  from  the  river's 
13 


The  Old^/Lanse 

brink  that  it  cannot  be  grasped  save 
at  the  hazard  of  plunging  in. 

It  is  a  marvel  whence  this  per 
fect  flower  derives  its  loveliness  and 
perfume,  springing  as  it  does  from 
the  black  mud  over  which  the  river 
sleeps,  and  where  lurk  the  slimy 
eel  and  speckled  frog  and  the  mud 
turtle,  whom  continual  washing  can 
not  cleanse.  It  is  the  very  same 
black  mud  out  of  which  the  yellow 
lily  sucks  its  obscene  life  and  noisome 
odor.  Thus  we  see,  too,  in  the  world 
that  some  persons  assimilate  only 
what  is  ugly  and  evil  from  the  same 
moral  circumstances  which  supply 
good  and  beautiful  results  —  the  fra 
grance  of  celestial  flowers  —  to  the 
daily  life  of  others. 

The  reader  must  not,  from  any 
14 


The  Old  Clause 

testimony  of  mine,  contract  a  dis 
like  towards  our  slumberous  stream. 
In  the  light  of  a  calm  and  golden 
sunset  it  becomes  lovely  beyond 
expression ;  the  more  lovely  for  the 
quietude  that  so  well  accords  with  the 
hour,  when  even  the  wind,  after  blus 
tering  all  day  long,  usually  hushes 
itself  to  rest.  Each  tree  and  rock, 
and  every  blade  of  grass,  is  distinctly 
imaged,  and,  however  unsightly  in 
reality,  assumes  ideal  beauty  in  the 
reflection.  The  minutest  things  of 
earth  and  the  broad  aspect  of  the 
firmament  are  pictured  equally  with 
out  effort  and  with  the  same  felicity 
of  success.  All  the  sky  glows  down 
ward  at  our  feet;  the  rich  clouds 
float  through  the  unruffled  bosom 
of  the  stream  like  heavenly  thoughts 
15 


The 

through  a  peaceful  heart.  We  will 
not,  then,  malign  our  river  as  gross 
and  impure  while  it  can  glorify  itself 
with  so  adequate  a  picture  of  the 
heaven  that  broods  above  it ;  or,  if 
we  remember  its  tawny  hue  and  the 
muddiness  of  its  bed,  let  it  be  a 
symbol  that  the  earthliest  human 
soul  has  an  infinite  spiritual  capacity 
and  may  contain  the  better  world 
within  its  depths.  But,  indeed,  the 
same  lesson  might  be  drawn  out  of 
any  mud  puddle  in  the  streets  of  a 
city ;  and,  being  taught  us  every 
where,  it  must  be  true. 

Come,  we  have  pursued  a  some 
what  devious  track  in  our  walk  to 
the  battle-ground.  Here  we  are,  at 
the  point  where  the  river  was  crossed 
by  the  old  bridge,  the  possession  of 
16 


The  Old^Manse 

which  was  the  immediate  object  of 
the  contest.  On  the  hither  side  grow 
two  or  three  elms,  throwing  a  wide 
circumference  of  shade,  but  which 
must  have  been  planted  at  some 
period  within  the  threescore  years 
and  ten  that  have  passed  since  the 
battle  day.  On  the  farther  shore, 
overhung  by  a  clump  of  elder  bushes, 
we  discern  the  stone  abutment  of 
the  bridge.  Looking  down  into  the 
river,  I  once  discovered  some  heavy 
fragments  of  the  timbers,  all  green 
with  half  a  century's  growth  of  wa 
ter  moss ;  for  during  that  length  of 
time  the  tramp  of  horses  and  hu 
man  footsteps  has  ceased  along  this 
ancient  highway.  The  stream  has 
here  about  the  breadth  of  twenty 
strokes  of  a  swimmer's  arm,  —  a 
17 


The 

space  not  too  wide  when  the  bullets 
were  whistling  across.  Old  people 
who  dwell  hereabouts  will  point  out 
the  very  spots  on  the  western  bank 
where  our  countrymen  fell  down 
and  died;  and  on  this  side  of  the 
river  an  obelisk  of  granite  has  grown 
up  from  the  soil  that  was  fertilized 
with  British  blood.  The  monument, 
not  more  than  twenty  feet  in  height, 
is  such  as  it  befitted  the  inhabitants 
of  a  village  to  erect  in  illustration 
of  a  matter  of  local  interest  rather 
than  what  was  suitable  to  commem 
orate  an  epoch  of  national  history. 
Still,  by  the  fathers  of  the  village 
this  famous  deed  was  done ;  and  their 
descendants  might  rightfully  claim 
the  privilege  of  building  a  me 
morial. 

18 


The  Old^Lanse 

A  humbler  token  of  the  fight,  yet 
a  more  interesting  one  than  the 
granite  obelisk,  may  be  seen  close 
under  the  stone  wall  which  separates 
the  battle-ground  from  the  precincts 
of  the  parsonage.  It  is  the  grave 
—  marked  by  a  small,  moss-grown 
fragment  of  stone  at  the  head  and 
another  at  the  foot  —  the  grave  of 
two  British  soldiers  who  were  slain 
in  the  skirmish,  and  have  ever  since 
slept  peacefully  where  Zechariah 
Brown  and  Thomas  Davis  buried 
them.  Soon  was  their  warfare  end 
ed  ;  a  weary  night  march  from  Bos 
ton,  a  rattling  volley  of  musketry 
across  the  river,  and  then  these 
many  years  of  rest.  In  the  long 
procession  of  slain  invaders  who 
passed  into  eternity  from  the  battle- 
19 


The 

fields  of  the  revolution,  these  two 
nameless  soldiers  led  the  way. 

Lowell,  the  poet,  as  we  were  once 
standing  over  this  grave,  told  me  a 
tradition  in  reference  to  one  of  the  in 
habitants  below.  The  story  has  some 
thing  deeply  impressive,  though  its 
circumstances  cannot  altogether  be 
reconciled  with  probability.  A  youth 
in  the  service  of  the  clergyman  hap 
pened  to  be  chopping  wood,  that 
April  morning,  at  the  back  door  of 
the  Manse,  and  when  the  noise  of 
battle  rang  from  side  to  side  of  the 
bridge  he  hastened  across  the  inter 
vening  field  to  see  what  might  be 
going  forward.  It  is  rather  strange, 
by  the  way,  that  this  lad  should  have 
been  so  diligently  at  work  when  the 
whole  population  of  town  and  coun- 
20 


The  Old^Lanse 

try  were  startled  out  of  their  custom 
ary  business  by  the  advance  of  the 
British  troops.  Be  that  as  it  might, 
the  tradition  says  that  the  lad  now 
left  his  task  and  hurried  to  the  battle 
field  with  the  axe  still  in  his  hand. 
The  British  had  by  this  time  retreated, 
the  Americans  were  in  pursuit ;  and 
the  late  scene  of  strife  was  thus  de 
serted  by  both  parties.  Two  soldiers 
lay  on  the  ground  - —  one  was  a  corpse ; 
but,  as  the  young  New  Englander 
drew  nigh,  the  other  Briton  raised 
himself  painfully  upon  his  hands  and 
knees  and  gave  a  ghastly  stare  into  his 
face.  The  boy, — it  must  have  been 
a  nervous  impulse,  without  purpose, 
without  thought,  and  betokening  a 
sensitive  and  impressible  nature 
rather  than  a  hardened  one,  —  the 
21 


The 

boy  uplifted  his  axe  and  dealt  the 
wounded  soldier  a  fierce  and  fatal 
blow  upon  the  head. 

I  could  wish  that  the  grave  might 
be  opened;  for  I  would  fain  know 
whether  either  of  the  skeleton  sol 
diers  has  the  mark  of  an  axe  in  his 
skull.  The  story  comes  home  to  me 
like  truth.  Oftentimes,  as  an  intellec 
tual  and  moral  exercise,  I  have  sought 
to  follow  that  poor  youth  through  his 
subsequent  career,  and  observe  how 
his  soul  was  tortured  by  the  blood 
stain,  contracted  as  it  had  been  before 
the  long  custom  of  war  had  robbed 
human  life  of  its  sanctity,  and  while 
it  still  seemed  murderous  to  slay  a 
brother  man.  This  one  circumstance 
has  borne  more  fruit  for  me  than  all 
that  history  tells  us  of  the  fight. 
22 


The  Old<*JMan$e 

Many  strangers  come  in  the  sum 
mer  time  to  view  the  battle-ground. 
For  my  own  part,  I  have  never 
found  my  imagination  much  excited 
by  this  or  any  other  scene  of  historic 
celebrity ;  nor  would  the  placid  mar 
gin  of  the  river  have  lost  any  of  its 
charm  for  me  had  men  never  fought 
and  died  there.  There  is  a  wilder 
interest  in  the  tract  of  land  —  per 
haps  a  hundred  yards  in  breadth  — 
which  extends  between  the  battle 
field  and  the  northern  face  of  our 
Old  Manse,  with  its  contiguous  ave 
nue  and  orchard.  Here,  in  some 
unknown  age,  before  the  white  man 
came,  stood  an  Indian  village,  con 
venient  to  the  river,  whence  its  in 
habitants  must  have  drawn  so  large 
a  part  of  their  subsistence.  The  site 
23 


The  Old  Clause 

is  identified  by  the  spear  and  arrow 
heads,  the  chisels,  and  other  imple 
ments  of  war,  labor,  and  the  chase, 
which  the  plough  turns  up  from  the 
soil.  You  see  a  splinter  of  stone, 
half  hidden  beneath  a  sod  ;  it  looks 
like  nothing  worthy  of  note ;  but,  if 
you  have  faith  enough  to  pick  it  up, 
behold  a  relic  !  Thoreau,  who  has 
a  strange  faculty  of  finding  what  the 
Indians  have  left  behind  them,  first 
set  me  on  the  search ;  and  I  after 
wards  enriched  myself  with  some 
very  perfect  specimens,  so  rudely 
wrought  that  it  seemed  almost  as  if 
chance  had  fashioned  them.  Their 
great  charm  consists  in  this  rudeness 
and  in  the  individuality  of  each  arti 
cle,  so  different  from  the  productions 
of  civilized  machinery,  which  shapes 
24 


The  Old  Clause 

everything  on  one  pattern.  There  is 
exquisite  delight,  too,  in  picking  up 
for  one's  self  an  arrowhead  that  was 
dropped  centuries  ago  and  has  never 
been  handled  since,  and  which  we 
thus  receive  directly  from  the  hand 
of  the  red  hunter,  who  purposed  to 
shoot  it  at  his  game  or  at  an  enemy. 
Such  an  incident  builds  up  again  the 
Indian  village  and  its  encircling  for 
est,  and  recalls  to  life  the  painted 
chiefs  and  warriors,  the  squaws  at 
their  household  toil,  and  the  chil 
dren  sporting  among  the  wigwams, 
while  the  little  wind -rocked  pap- 
poose  swings  from  the  branch  of  the 
tree.  It  can  hardly  be  told  whether 
it  is  a  joy  or  a  pain,  after  such  a 
momentary  vision,  to  gaze  around 
in  the  broad  daylight  of  reality  and 
25 


The  Old^Manse 

see  stone  fences,  white  houses,  po 
tato  fields,  and  men  doggedly  hoeing 
in  their  shirt-sleeves  and  homespun 
pantaloons.  But  this  is  nonsense. 
The  Old  Manse  is  better  than  a 
thousand  wigwams. 

The  Old  Manse  !  We  had  almost 
forgotten  it,  but  will  return  thither 
through  the  orchard.  This  was  set 
out  by  the  last  clergyman,  in  the  de 
cline  of  his  life,  when  the  neighbors 
laughed  at  the  hoary-headed  man  for 
planting  trees  from  which  he  could 
have  no  prospect  of  gathering  fruit. 
Even  had  that  been  the  case,  there 
was  only  so  much  the  better  motive 
for*  planting  them,  in  the  pure  and 
unselfish  hope  of  benefiting  his  suc 
cessors,  — an  end  so  seldom  achieved 
by  more  ambitious  efforts.  But  the 
26 


The  Old^Manse 

old  minister,  before  reaching  his 
patriarchal  age  of  ninety,  ate  the  ap 
ples  from  this  orchard  during  many 
years,  and  added  silver  and  gold 
to  his  annual  stipend  by  disposing 
of  the  superfluity.  It  is  pleasant 
to  think  of  him  walking  among 
the  trees  in  the  quiet  afternoons  of 
early  autumn  and  picking  up  here 
and  there  a  windfall,  while  he  ob 
serves  how  heavily  the  branches 
are  weighed  down,  and  computes 
the  number  of  empty  flour  barrels 
that  will  be  filled  by  their  burden. 
He  loved  each  tree,  doubtless,  as  if 
it  had  been  his  own  child.  An  or 
chard  has  a  relation  to  mankind,  and 
readily  connects  itself  with  matters 
of  the  heart.  The  trees  possess  a 
domestic  character ;  they  have  lost 
27 


The  Old<Jk[anse 

the  wild  nature  of  their  forest  kin 
dred,  and  have  grown  humanized  by 
receiving  the  care  of  man  as  well  as 
by  contributing  to  his  wants.  There 
is  so  much  individuality  of  character, 
too,  among  apple-trees  that  it  gives 
them  an  additional  claim  to  be  the 
objects  of  human  interest.  One  is 
harsh  and  crabbed  in  its  manifesta 
tions  ;  another  gives  us  fruit  as  mild 
as  charity.  One  is  churlish  and  illib 
eral,  evidently  grudging  the  few  ap 
ples  that  it  bears  ;  another  exhausts 
itself  in  free-hearted  benevolence. 
The  variety  of  grotesque  shapes  into 
which  apple-trees  contort  themselves 
has  its  effect  on  those  who  get  ac 
quainted  with  them :  they  stretch  out 
their  crooked  branches,  and  take 
such  hold  of  the  imagination  that  we 
28 


The  Old  Clause 

remember  them  as  humorists  and 
odd-fellows.  And  what  is  more  mel 
ancholy  than  the  old  apple-trees  that 
linger  about  the  spot  where  once 
stood  a  homestead,  but  where  there 
is  now  only  a  ruined  chimney  rising 
out  of  a  grassy  and  weed-grown  cel 
lar  ?  They  offer  their  fruit  to  every 
wayfarer,  —  apples  that  are  bitter 
sweet  with  the  moral  of  Time's 
vicissitude. 

I  have  met  with  no  other  such 
pleasant  trouble  in  the  world  as  that 
of  finding  myself,  with  only  the 
two  or  three  mouths  which  it  was 
my  privilege  to  feed,  the  sole  inher 
itor  of  the  old  clergyman's  wealth 
of  fruits.  Throughout  the  summer 
there  were  cherries  and  currants  ; 
and  then  came  autumn,  with  his  im- 
29 


The  Old^Lanse 

mense  burden  of  apples,  dropping 
them  continually  from  his  overladen 
shoulders  as  he  trudged  along.  In 
the  stillest  afternoon,  if  I  listened, 
the  thump  of  a  great  apple  was  audi 
ble,  falling  without  a  breath  of  wind, 
from  the  mere  necessity  of  perfect 
ripeness.  And,  besides,  there  were 
pear-trees,  that  flung  down  bushels 
upon  bushels  of  heavy  pears ;  and 
peach-trees,  which,  in  a  good  year, 
tormented  me  with  peaches,  neither 
to  be  eaten  nor  kept,  nor,  without 
labor  and  perplexity,  to  be  given 
away.  The  idea  of  an  infinite  gener 
osity  and  exhaustless  bounty  on  the 
part  of  our  Mother  Nature  was  well 
worth  obtaining  through  such  cares 
as  these.  That  feeling  can  be  enjoyed 
in  perfection  only  by  the  natives  of 
30 


The  Old  zJM 

summer  islands,  where  the  bread 
fruit,  the  cocoa,  the  palm,  and  the 
orange  grow  spontaneously  and  hold 
forth  the  ever-ready  meal ;  but  like 
wise  almost  as  well  by  a  man  long 
habituated  to  city  life,  who  plunges 
into  such  a  solitude  as  that  of  the  Old 
Manse,  where  he  plucks  the  fruit  of 
trees  that  he  did  not  plant,  and  which 
therefore,  to  my  heterodox  taste, 
bear  the  closest  resemblance  to  those 
that  grew  in  Eden.  It  has  been  an 
apothegm  these  five  thousand  years, 
that  toil  sweetens  the  bread  it  earns. 
For  my  part  (speaking  from  hard 
experience,  acquired  while  belabor 
ing  the  rugged  furrows  of  Brook 
Farm),  I  relish  best  the  free  gifts 
of  Providence. 

Not  that  it  can  be  disputed  that 
31 


The  Old^Manse 

the  light  toil  requisite  to  cultivate 
a  moderately-sized  garden  imparts 
such  zest  to  kitchen  vegetables  as 
is  never  found  in  those  of  the  mar 
ket  gardener.  Childless  men,  if  they 
would  know  something  of  the  bliss 
of  paternity,  should  plant  a  seed, — 
be  it  squash,  bean,  Indian  corn,  or 
perhaps  a  mere  flower  or  worthless 
weed,  —  should  plant  it  with  their 
own  hands,  and  nurse  it  from  infancy 
to  maturity  altogether  by  their  own 
care.  If  there  be  not  too  many  of 
them,  each  individual  plant  becomes 
an  object  of  separate  interest.  My 
garden,  that  skirted  the  avenue  of 
the  Manse,  was  of  precisely  the  right 
extent.  An  hour  or  two  of  morning 
labor  was  all  that  it  required.  But 
I  used  to  visit  and  revisit  it  a  dozen 
32 


The  Old^Lanse 

times  a  day,  and  stand  in  deep  con 
templation  over  my  vegetable  pro 
geny  with  a  love  that  nobody  could 
share  or  conceive  of  who  had  never 
taken  part  in  the  process  of  creation. 
It  was  one  of  the  most  bewitching 
sights  in  the  world  to  observe  a  hill 
of  beans  thrusting  aside  the  soil,  or 
a  row  of  early  peas  just  peeping 
forth  sufficiently  to  trace  a  line  of 
delicate  green.  Later  in  the  season 
the  humming-birds  were  attracted 
by  the  blossoms  of  a  peculiar  vari 
ety  of  bean  ;  and  they  were  a  joy  to 
me,  those  little  spiritual  visitants,  for 
deigning  to  sip  airy  food  out  of  my 
nectar  cups.  Multitudes  of  bees  used 
to  bury  themselves  in  the  yellow 
blossoms  of  the  summer  squashes. 
This,  too,  was  a  deep  satisfaction ; 
33 


The 

although  when  they  had  laden  them 
selves  with  sweets  they  flew  away 
to  some  unknown  hive,  which  would 
give  back  nothing  in  requital  of  what 
my  garden  had  contributed.  But  I 
was  glad  thus  to  fling  a  benefaction 
upon  the  passing  breeze  with  a  cer 
tainty  that  somebody  must  profit  by 
it,  and  that  there  would  be  a  little 
more  honey  in  the  world  to  allay  the 
sourness  and  bitterness  which  man 
kind  is  always  complaining  of.  Yes, 
indeed ;  my  life  was  the  sweeter  for 
that  honey. 

Speaking  of  summer  squashes,  I 
must  say  a  word  of  their  beautiful 
and  varied  forms.  They  presented  an 
endless  diversity  of  urns  and  vases, 
shallow  or  deep,  scalloped  or  plain, 
moulded  in  patterns  which  a  sculptor 
34 


The 

would  do  well  to  copy,  since  Art  has 
never  in  vented  anything  more  grace 
ful.  A  hundred  squashes  in  the  gar 
den  were  worthy,  in  my  eyes  at 
least,  of  being  rendered  indestructi 
ble  in  marble.  If  ever  Providence 
(but  I  know  it  never  will)  should 
assign  me  a  superfluity  of  gold,  part 
of  it  shall  be  expended  for  a  ser 
vice  of  plate,  or  most  delicate  porce 
lain,  to  be  wrought  into  the  shapes 
of  summer  squashes  gathered  from 
vines  which  I  will  plant  with  my  own 
hands.  As  dishes  for  containing  veg 
etables  they  would  be  peculiarly  ap 
propriate. 

But  not  merely  the  squeamish  love 

of  the  beautiful  was  gratified  by  my 

toil  in  the  kitchen  garden.    There 

was  a  hearty  enjoyment,  likewise,  in 

35 


The  Old^Lanse 

observing  the  growth  of  the  crook- 
necked  winter  squashes,  from  the 
first  little  bulb,  with  the  withered 
blossom  adhering  to  it,  until  they  lay 
strewn  upon  the  soil,  big,  round  fel 
lows,  hiding  their  heads  beneath  the 
leaves,  but  turning  up  their  great 
yellow  rotundities  to  the  noontide 
sun.  Gazing  at  them,  I  felt  that  by 
my  agency  something  worth  living 
for  had  been  done.  A  new  sub 
stance  was  born  into  the  world. 
They  were  real  and  tangible  exist 
ences,  which  the  mind  could  seize 
hold  of  and  rejoice  in.  A  cabbage, 
too,  —  especially  the  early  Dutch 
cabbage,  which  swells  to  a  mon 
strous  circumference,  until  its  ambi 
tious  heart  often  bursts  asunder,  — 
is  a  matter  to  be  proud  of  when  we 
36 


The  Old^Manse 

can  claim  a  share  with  the  earth  and 
sky  in  producing  it.  But,  after  all, 
the  hugest  pleasure  is  reserved  un 
til  these  vegetable  children  of  ours 
are  smoking  on  the  table,  and  we, 
like  Saturn,  make  a  meal  of  them. 

What  with  the  river,  the  battle 
field,  the  orchard  and  the  garden, 
the  reader  begins  to  despair  of  find 
ing  his  way  back  into  the  Old  Manse. 
But  in  agreeable  weather  it  is  the 
truest  hospitality  to  keep  him  out- 
of-doors.  I  never  grew  quite  ac 
quainted  with  my  habitation  till  a 
long  spell  of  sulky  rain  had  confined 
me  beneath  its  roof.  There  could 
not  be  a  more  sombre  aspect  of  ex 
ternal  Nature  than  as  then  seen  from 
the  windows  of  my  study.  The 
great  willow-tree  had  caught  and 
37 


The  Old  Clause 

retained  among  its  leaves  a  whole 
cataract  of  water,  to  be  shaken  down 
at  intervals  by  the  frequent  gusts  of 
wind.  All  day  long,  and  for  a  week 
together,  the  rain  was  drip-drip-drip 
ping  and  splash  -  splash  -  splashing 
from  the  eaves,  and  bubbling  and 
foaming  into  the  tubs  beneath  the 
spouts.  The  old,  unpainted  shin 
gles  of  the  house  and  out-buildings 
were  black  with  moisture;  and  the 
mosses  of  ancient  growth  upon  the 
walls  looked  green  and  fresh,  as  if 
they  were  the  newest  things  and 
afterthought  of  Time.  The  usually 
mirrored  surface  of  the  river  was 
blurred  by  an  infinity  of  raindrops ; 
the  whole  landscape  had  a  com 
pletely  water -soaked  appearance, 
conveying  the  impression  that  the 
38 


The 

earth  was  wet  through  like  a  sponge ; 
while  the  summit  of  a  wooded  hill, 
about  a  mile  distant,  was  enveloped 
in  a  dense  mist,  where  the  demon 
of  the  tempest  seemed  to  have  his 
abiding-place  and  to  be  plotting  still 
direr  inclemencies. 

Nature  has  no  kindness,  no  hospi 
tality,  during  a  rain.  In  the  fiercest 
heat  of  sunny  days  she  retains  a  se 
cret  mercy,  anvi  welcomes  the  way 
farer  to  shady  nooks  of  the  woods 
whither  the  sun  cannot  penetrate ; 
but  she  provides  no  shelter  against 
her  storms.  It  makes  us  shiver  to 
think  of  those  deep,  umbrageous  re 
cesses,  those  overshadowing  banks, 
where  we  found  such  enjoyment 
during  the  sultry  afternoons.  Not  a 
twig  of  foliage  there  but  would  dash 
39 


The  Old<JWanse 

a  little  shower  into  our  faces.  Look 
ing  reproachfully  towards  the  impen 
etrable  sky,  — if  sky  there  be  above 
that  dismal  uniformity  of  cloud, — 
we  are  apt  to  murmur  against  the 
whole  system  of  the  universe,  since 
it  involves  the  extinction  of  so  many 
summer  days  in  so  short  a  life  by 
the  hissing  and  sputtering  rain.  In 
such  spells  of  weather  —  and  it  is  to 
be  supposed  such  weather  came  — 
Eve's  bower  in  paradise  must  have 
been  but  a  cheerless  and  aguish 
kind  of  shelter,  nowise  comparable 
to  the  old  parsonage,  which  had  re 
sources  of  its  own  to  beguile  the 
week's  imprisonment.  The  idea  of 
sleeping  on  a  couch  of  wet  roses ! 

Happy  the  man  who  in  a  rainy 
day  can  betake  himself  to  a  huge 
40 


The  Old  Clause 

garret,  stored,  like  that  of  the  Manse, 
with  lumber  that  each  generation 
has  left  behind  it  from  a  period  be 
fore  the  revolution.  Our  garret  was 
an  arched  hall,  dimly  illuminated 
through  small  and  dusty  windows ; 
it  was  but  a  twilight  at  the  best; 
and  there  were  nooks,  or  rather  cav 
erns,  of  deep  obscurity,  the  secrets 
of  which  I  never  learned,  being  too 
reverent  of  their  dust  and  cobwebs. 
The  beams  and  rafters,  roughly  hewn 
and  with  strips  of  bark  still  on  them, 
and  the  rude  masonry  of  the  chim 
neys,  made  the  garret  look  wild  and 
uncivilized,  —  an  aspect  unlike  what 
was  seen  elsewhere  in  the  quiet  and 
decorous  old  house.  But  on  one  side 
there  was  a  little  whitewashed  apart 
ment  which  bore  the  traditionary 
41 


The  Old^Lanse 

title  of  the  Saint's  Chamber,  because 
holy  men  in  their  youth  had  slept 
and  studied  and  prayed  there.  With 
its  elevated  retirement,  its  one  win 
dow,  its  small  fireplace,  and  its 
closet,  convenient  for  an  oratory,  it 
was  the  very  spot  where  a  young 
man  might  inspire  himself  with  sol 
emn  enthusiasm  and  cherish  saintly 
dreams.  The  occupants,  at  various 
epochs,  had  left  brief  records  and 
ejaculations  inscribed  upon  the  walls. 
There,  too,  hung  a  tattered  and 
shrivelled  roll  of  canvas,  which  on 
inspection  proved  to  be  the  forcibly 
wrought  picture  of  a  clergyman,  in 
wig,  band,  and  gown,  holding  a  Bi 
ble  in  his  hand.  As  I  turned  his  face 
towards  the  light  he  eyed  me  with 
an  air  of  authority  such  as  men  of 
42 


The 

his  profession  seldom  assume  in  our 
days.  The  original  had  been  pas 
tor  of  the  parish  more  than  a  cen 
tury  ago,  a  friend  of  Whitefield,  and 
almost  his  equal  in  fervid  eloquence. 
I  bowed  before  the  effigy  of  the  dig 
nified  divine,  and  felt  as  if  I  had  now 
met  face  to  face  with  the  ghost  by 
whom,  as  there  was  reason  to  ap 
prehend,  the  Manse  was  haunted. 

Houses  of  any  antiquity  in  New 
England  are  so  invariably  possessed 
with  spirits  that  the  matter  seems 
hardly  worth  alluding  to.  Our  ghost 
used  to  heave  deep  sighs  in  a  partic 
ular  corner  of  the  parlor,  and  some 
times  rustled  paper,  as  if  he  were 
turning  over  a  sermon  in  the  long 
upper  entry,  —  where  nevertheless 
he  was  invisible  in  spite  of  the  bright 
43 


The 

moonshine  that  fell  through  the  east 
ern  window.  Not  improbably  he 
wished  me  to  edit  and  publish  a  se 
lection  from  a  chest  full  of  manu 
script  discourses  that  stood  in  the 
garret.  Once,  while  Hillard  and 
other  friends  sat  talking  with  us  in 
the  twilight,  there  came  a  rustling 
noise  as  of  a  minister's  silk  gown, 
sweeping  through  the  very  midst  of 
the  company  so  closely  as  almost  to 
brush  against  the  chairs.  Still  there 
was  nothing  visible.  A  yet  stranger 
business  was  that  of  a  ghostly  ser 
vant  maid,  who  used  to  be  heard 
in  the  kitchen  at  deepest  midnight, 
grinding  coffee,  cooking,  ironing,  — 
performing,  in  short,  all  kinds  of 
domestic  labor,  —  although  no  traces 
of  anything  accomplished  could  be 
44 


The 

detected  the  next  morning.  Some 
neglected  duty  of  her  servitude  — 
some  ill-starched  ministerial  band 
—  disturbed  the  poor  damsel  in  her 
grave  and  kept  her  at  work  without 
any  wages. 

But  to  return  from  this  digression. 
A  part  of  my  predecessor's  library 
was  stored  in  the  garret,  —  no  unfit 
receptacle  indeed  for  such  dreary 
trash  as  comprised  the  greater  num 
ber  of  volumes.  The  old  books 
would  have  been  worth  nothing  at 
an  auction.  In  this  venerable  garret, 
however,  they  possessed  an  interest, 
quite  apart  from  their  literary  value, 
as  heirlooms,  many  of  which  had 
been  transmitted  down  through  a 
series  of  consecrated  hands  from  the 
days  of  the  mighty  Puritan  divines. 
45 


The  Old^Manse 

Autographs  of  famous  names  were 
to  be  seen  in  faded  ink  on  some  of 
their  flyleaves  ;  and  there  were  mar 
ginal  observations  or  interpolated 
pages  closely  covered  with  manu 
script  in  illegible  shorthand,  perhaps 
concealing  matter  of  profound  truth 
and  wisdom.  The  world  will  never 
be  the  better  for  it.  A  few  of  the 
books  were  Latin  folios,  written  by 
Catholic  authors  ;  others  demolished 
Papistry,  as  with  a  sledge-hammer, 
in  plain  English.  A  dissertation  on 
the  book  of  Job  —  which  only  Job 
himself  could  have  had  patience  to 
read  —  filled  at  least  a  score  of 
small,  thickset  quartos,  at  the  rate 
of  two  or  three  volumes  to  a  chap 
ter.  Then  there  was  a  vast  folio 
body  of  divinity  —  too  corpulent  a 
46 


The  Old^Manse 

body,  it  might  be  feared,  to  compre 
hend  the  spiritual  element  of  reli 
gion.  Volumes  of  this  form  dated 
back  two  hundred  years  or  more, 
and  were  generally  bound  in  black 
leather,  exhibiting  precisely  such  an 
appearance  as  we  should  attribute 
to  books  of  enchantment.  Others 
equally  antique  were  of  a  size  proper 
to  be  carried  in  the  large  waistcoat 
pockets  of  old  times,  —  diminutive, 
but  as  black  as  their  bulkier  breth 
ren,  and  abundantly  interfused  with 
Greek  and  Latin  quotations.  These 
little  old  volumes  impressed  me  as 
if  they  had  been  intended  for  very 
large  ones,  but  had  been  unfortu 
nately  blighted  at  an  early  stage  of 
their  growth. 

The  rain  pattered  upon  the  roof 
47 


The 

and  the  sky  gloomed  through  the 
dusty  garret  windows,  while  I  bur 
rowed  among  these  venerable  books 
in  search  of  any  living  thought  which 
should  burn  like  a  coal  of  fire,  or 
glow  like  an  inextinguishable  gem, 
beneath  the  dead  trumpery  that  had 
long  hidden  it.  But  I  found  no  such 
treasure ;  all  was  dead  alike  ;  and 
I  could  not  but  muse  deeply  and 
wonderingly  upon  the  humiliating 
fact  that  the  works  of  man's  intel 
lect  decay  like  those  of  his  hands. 
Thought  grows  mouldy.  What  was 
good  and  nourishing  food  for  the 
spirits  of  one  generation  affords  no 
sustenance  for  the  next.  Books  of 
religion,  however,  cannot  be  con 
sidered  a  fair  test  of  the  enduring 
and  vivacious  properties  of  human 
48 


The 

thought,  because  such  books  so  sel 
dom  really  touch  upon  their  osten 
sible  subject,  and  have,  therefore,  so 
little  business  to  be  written  at  all. 
So  long  as  an  unlettered  soul  can 
attain  to  saving  grace,  there  would 
seem  to  be  no  deadly  error  in  hold 
ing  theological  libraries  to  be  accu 
mulations  of,  for  the  most  part,  stu 
pendous  impertinence. 

Many  of  the  books  had  accrued 
in  the  latter  years  of  the  last  clergy 
man's  lifetime.  These  threatened 
to  be  of  even  less  interest  than  the 
elder  works,  a  century  hence,  to  any 
curious  inquirer  who  should  then 
rummage  them  as  I  was  doing  now. 
Volumes  of  the  "  Liberal  Preacher  " 
and  «  Christian  Examiner,"  occa 
sional  sermons,  controversial  pam- 
49 


The  Old  Cla 

phlets,  tracts,  and  other  productions 
of  a  like  fugitive  nature  took  the 
place  of  the  thick  and  heavy  vol 
umes  of  past  time.  In  a  physical 
point  of  view  there  was  much  the 
same  difference  as  between  a  feather 
and  a  lump  of  lead  ;  but,  intellectu 
ally  regarded,  the  specific  gravity  of 
old  and  new  was  about  upon  a  par. 
Both  also  were  alike  frigid.  The 
elder  books,  nevertheless,  seemed 
to  have  been  earnestly  written,  and 
might  be  conceived  to  have  possessed 
warmth  at  some  former  period ;  al 
though,  with  the  lapse  of  time,  the 
heated  masses  had  cooled  down  even 
to  the  freezing  point.  The  frigidity 
of  the  modern  productions,  on  the 
other  hand,  was  characteristic  and 
inherent,  and  evidently  had  little  to 
50 


The  Old^^Manse 

do  with  the  writer's  qualities  of  mind 
and  heart.  In  fine,  of  this  whole 
dusty  heap  of  literature  I  tossed 
aside  all  the  sacred  part,  and  felt 
myself  none  the  less  a  Christian  for 
eschewing  it.  There  appeared  no 
hope  of  either  mounting  to  the  bet 
ter  world  on  a  Gothic  staircase  of 
ancient  folios  or  of  flying  thither  on 
the  wings  of  a  modern  tract. 

Nothing,  strange  to  say,  retained 
any  sap  except  what  had  been  writ 
ten  for  the  passing  day  and  year 
without  the  remotest  pretension  or 
idea  of  permanence.  There  were  a 
few  old  newspapers,  and  still  older 
almanacs,  which  reproduced  to  my 
mental  eye  the  epochs  when  they 
had  issued  from  the  press,  with  a 
distinctness  that  was  altogether  un- 
51 


The 

accountable.  It  was  as  if  I  had  found 
bits  of  magic  looking-glass  among 
the  books,  with  the  images  of  a  van 
ished  century  in  them.  I  turned  my 
eyes  towards  the  tattered  picture 
above  mentioned,  and  asked  of  the 
austere  divine  wherefore  it  was  that 
he  and  his  brethren,  after  the  most 
painful  rummaging  and  groping  into 
their  minds,  had  been  able  to  produce 
nothing  half  so  real  as  these  news 
paper  scribblers  and  almanac  makers 
had  thrown  off  in  the  effervescence 
of  a  moment.  The  portrait  responded 
not ;  so  I  sought  an  answer  for  my 
self.  It  is  the  age  itself  that  writes 
newspapers  and  almanacs,  which, 
therefore,  have  a  distinct  purpose 
and  meaning  at  the  time,  and  a  kind 
of  intelligible  truth  for  all  times  ; 
52 


The  Old<JI4anse 

whereas  most  other  works  —  being 
written  by  men  who,  in  the  very 
act,  set  themselves  apart  from  their 
age  —  are  likely  to  possess  little 
significance  when  new,  and  none  at 
all  when  old.  Genius,  indeed,  melts 
many  ages  into  one,  and  thus  effects 
something  permanent,  yet  still  with 
a  similarity  of  office  to  that  of  the 
more  ephemeral  writer.  A  work  of 
genius  is  but  the  newspaper  of  a 
century,  or  perchance  of  a  hundred 
centuries. 

Lightly  as  I  have  spoken  of  these 
old  books,  there  yet  lingers  with  me 
a  superstitious  reverence  for  litera 
ture  of  all  kinds.  A  bound  volume 
has  a  charm  in  my  eyes  similar  to 
what  scraps  of  manuscript  possess 
for  the  good  Mussulman.  He  ima- 
53 


The  Old<>JManse 

gines  that  those  wind- wafted  records 
are  perhaps  hallowed  by  some  sacred 
verse ;  and  I,  that  every  new  book  or 
antique  one  may  contain  the  "  open 
sesame/'  —  the  spell  to  disclose 
treasures  hidden  in  some  unsus 
pected  cave  of  Truth.  Thus  it  was 
not  without  sadness  that  I  turned 
away  from  the  library  of  the  Old 
Manse. 

Blessed  was  the  sunshine  when  it 
came  again  at  the  close  of  another 
stormy  day,  beaming  from  the  edge 
of  the  western  horizon ;  while  the 
massive  firmament  of  clouds  threw 
down  all  the  gloom  it  could,  but 
served  only  to  kindle  the  golden 
light  into  a  more  brilliant  glow  by 
the  strongly  contrasted  shadows. 
Heaven  smiled  at  the  earth,  so  long 
54 


The  Old^Manse 

unseen,  from  beneath  its  heavy  eye 
lid.  To-morrow  for  the  hill-tops  and 
the  wood-paths. 

Or  it  might  be  that  Ellery  Chan- 
ning  came  up  the  avenue  to  join  me 
in  a  fishing  excursion  on  the  river. 
Strange  and  happy  times  were  those 
when  we  cast  aside  all  irksome  forms 
and  strait-laced  habitudes,  and  deliv 
ered  ourselves  up  to  the  free  air,  to 
live  like  the  Indians  or  any  less  con 
ventional  race  during  one  bright 
semicircle  of  the  sun.  Rowing  our 
boat  against  the  current,  between 
wide  meadows,  we  turned  aside  into 
the  Assabeth.  A  more  lovely  stream 
than  this,  for  a  mile  above  its  junction 
with  the  Concord,  has  never  flowed 
on  earth,  —  nowhere,  indeed,  except 
to  lave  the  interior  regions  of  a 
55 


The  Old^Lanse 

poet's  imagination.  It  is  sheltered 
from  the  breeze  by  woods  and  a  hill 
side  ;  so  that  elsewhere  there  might  be 
a  hurricane,  and  here  scarcely  a  ripple 
across  the  shaded  water.  The  current 
lingers  along  so  gently  that  the  mere 
force  of  the  boatman's  will  seems  suf 
ficient  to  propel  his  craft  against  it. 
It  comes  flowing  softly  through  the 
midmost  privacy  and  deepest  heart 
of  a  wood  which  whispers  it  to  be 
quiet;  while  the  stream  whispers  back 
again  from  its  sedgy  borders,  as  if  river 
and  wood  were  hushing  one  another 
to  sleep.  Yes ;  the  river  sleeps  along 
its  course  and  dreams  of  the  sky  and 
of  the  clustering  foliage,  amid  which 
fall  showers  of  broken  sunlight,  im 
parting  specks  of  vivid  cheerfulness, 
in  contrast  with  the  quiet  depth  of  the 
56 


The  Old  Clause 

prevailing  tint.  Of  all  this  scene,  the 
slumbering  river  has  a  dream  picture 
in  its  bosom.  Which,  after  all,  was 
the  most  real — the  picture,  or  the  ori 
ginal  ? — the  objects  palpable  to  our 
grosser  senses,  or  their  apotheosis  in 
the  stream  beneath  ?  Surely  the  dis 
embodied  images  stand  in  closer  re 
lation  to  the  soul.  But  both  the  origi 
nal  and  the  reflection  had  here  an  ideal 
charm,  and,  had  it  been  a  thought 
more  wild,  I  could  have  fancied  that 
this  river  had  strayed  forth  out  of  the 
rich  scenery  of  my  companion's  in 
ner  world ;  only  the  vegetation  along 
its  banks  should  then  have  had  an 
Oriental  character. 

Gentle   and   unobtrusive   as  the 
river  is,  yet  the  tranquil  woods  seem 
hardly  satisfied  to  allow  it  passage. 
57 


The 

The  trees  are  rooted  on  the  very 
verge  of  the  water,  and  dip  their 
pendent  branches  into  it.  At  one 
spot  there  is  a  lofty  bank,  on  the 
slope  of  which  grow  some  hemlocks, 
declining  across  the  stream  with  out 
stretched  arms,  as  if  resolute  to  take 
the  plunge.  In  other  places  the 
banks  are  almost  on  a  level  with 
the  water ;  so  that  the  quiet  congre 
gation  of  trees  set  their  feet  in  the 
flood,  and  are  fringed  with  foliage 
down  to  the  surface.  Cardinal  flow 
ers  kindle  their  spiral  flames  and 
illuminate  the  dark  nooks  among  the 
shrubbery.  The  pond -lily  grows 
abundantly  along  the  margin  —  that 
delicious  flower,  which,  as  Thoreau 
tells  me,  opens  its  virgin  bosom  to 
the  first  sunlight  and  perfects  its  be- 
58 


The  Old  Clause 

ing  through  the  magic  of  that  genial 
kiss.  He  has  beheld  beds  of  them 
unfolding  in  due  succession  as  the 
sunrise  stole  gradually  from  flower 
to  flower  —  a  sight  not  to  be  hoped 
for  unless  when  a  poet  adjusts  his  in 
ward  eye  to  a  proper  focus  with  the 
outward  organ.  Grape-vines  here 
and  there  twine  themselves  around 
shrub  and  tree  and  hang  their  clus 
ters  over  the  water  within  reach  of 
the  boatman's  hand.  Oftentimes  they 
unite  two  trees  of  alien  race  in  an  in 
extricable  twine,  marrying  the  hem 
lock  and  the  maple  against  their 
will,  and  enriching  them  with  a  pur 
ple  offspring  of  which  neither  is  the 
parent.  One  of  these  ambitious  par 
asites  has  climbed  into  the  upper 
branches  of  a  tall  white  pine,  and  is 
59 


The 

still  ascending  from  bough  to  bough, 
unsatisfied  till  it  shall  crown  the 
tree's  airy  summit  with  a  wreath  of 
its  broad  foliage  and  a  cluster  of  its 
grapes. 

The  winding  course  of  the  stream 
continually  shut  out  the  scene  be 
hind  us,  and  revealed  as  calm  and 
lovely  a  one  before.  We  glided  from 
depth  to  depth,  and  breathed  new 
seclusion  at  every  turn.  The  shy 
kingfisher  flew  from  the  withered 
branch  close  at  hand  to  another  at  a 
distance,  uttering  a  shrill  cry  of  an 
ger  or  alarm.  Ducks  that  had  been 
floating  there  since  the  preceding 
eve  were  startled  at  our  approach, 
and  skimmed  along  the  glassy  river, 
breaking  its  dark  surface  with  a 
bright  streak.  The  pickerel  leaped 
60 


The 

from  among  the  lily-pads.  The  tur 
tle,  sunning  itself  upon  a  rock  or  at 
the  root  of  a  tree,  slid  suddenly  into 
the  water  with  a  plunge.  The  painted 
Indian  who  paddled  his  canoe  along 
the  Assabeth  three  hundred  years  ago 
could  hardly  have  seen  a  wilder  gen 
tleness  displayed  upon  its  banks  and 
reflected  in  its  bosom  than  we  did. 
Nor  could  the  same  Indian  have  pre 
pared  his  noontide  meal  with  more 
simplicity.  We  drew  up  our  skiff  at 
some  point  where  the  overarching 
shade  formed  a  natural  bower,  and 
there  kindled  a  fire  with  the  pine 
cones  and  decayed  branches  that  lay 
strewn  plentifully  around.  Soon  the 
smoke  ascended  among  the  trees,  im 
pregnated  with  a  savory  incense,  not 
heavy,  dull,  and  surfeiting,  like  the 
61 


The  Old^JManse 

steam  of  cookery  within  doors,  but 
sprightly  and  piquant.  The  smell 
of  our  feast  was  akin  to  the  wood 
land  odors  with  which  it  mingled : 
there  was  no  sacrilege  committed 
by  our  intrusion  there  :  the  sacred 
solitude  was  hospitable,  and  granted 
us  free  leave  to  cook  and  eat  in  the 
recess  that  was  at  once  our  kitchen 
and  banqueting  hall.  It  is  strange 
what  humble  offices  may  be  per 
formed  in  a  beautiful  scene  without 
destroying  its  poetry.  Our  fire,  red 
gleaming  among  the  trees,  and  we 
beside  it,  busied  with  culinary  rites 
and  spreading  out  our  meal  on  a 
moss-grown  log,  all  seemed  in  uni 
son  with  the  river  gliding  by  and 
the  foliage  rustling  over  us.  And, 
what  was  strangest,  neither  did  our 
62 


The 

mirth  seem  to  disturb  the  propri 
ety  of  the  solemn  woods  ;  although 
the  hobgoblins  of  the  old  wilderness 
and  the  will-of-the-wisps  that  glim 
mered  in  the  marshy  places  might 
have  come  trooping  to  share  our 
table  talk,  and  have  added  their  shrill 
laughter  to  our  merriment.  It  was 
the  very  spot  in  which  to  utter  the 
extremest  nonsense  or  the  profound- 
est  wisdom,  or  that  ethereal  product 
of  the  mind  which  partakes  of  both, 
and  may  become  one  or  the  other, 
in  correspondence  with  the  faith  and 
insight  of  the  auditor. 

So  amid  sunshine  and  shadow, 
rustling  leaves  and  sighing  waters, 
up  gushed  our  talk  like  the  babble 
of  a  fountain.  The  evanescent  spray 
was  Ellery's ;  and  his,  too,  the  lumps 
63 


The  Old^Manse 

of  golden  thought  that  lay  glimmer 
ing  in  the  fountain's  bed  and  bright 
ened  both  our  faces  by  the  reflec 
tion.  Could  he  have  drawn  out  that 
virgin  gold  and  stamped  it  with  the 
mint  mark  that  alone  gives  currency, 
the  world  might  have  had  the  profit, 
and  he  the  fame.  My  mind  was  the 
richer  merely  by  the  knowledge  that 
it  was  there.  But  the  chief  profit 
of  those  wild  days  to  him  and  me 
lay,  not  in  any  definite  idea,  not  in 
any  angular  or  rounded  truth,  which 
we  dug  out  of  the  shapeless  mass  of 
problematical  stuff,  but  in  the  free 
dom  which  we  thereby  won  from  all 
custom  and  conventionalism  and  fet 
tering  influences  of  man  on  man. 
We  were  so  free  to-day  that  it 
was  impossible  to  be  slaves  again 
64 


The  Old  Clause 

to-morrow.  When  we  crossed  the 
threshold  of  the  house  or  trod  the 
thronged  pavements  of  a  city,  still 
the  leaves  of  the  trees  that  overhang 
the  Assabeth  were  whispering  to  us, 
"Be free!  be  free!"  Therefore  along 
that  shady  river-bank  there  are  spots, 
marked  with  a  heap  of  ashes  and 
half -consumed  brands,  only  less  sa 
cred  in  my  remembrance  than  the 
hearth  of  a  household  fire. 

And  yet  how  sweet,  as  we  floated 
homeward  adown  the  golden  river 
at  sunset,  —  how  sweet  was  it  to 
return  within  the  system  of  human 
society,  not  as  to  a  dungeon  and  a 
chain,  but  as  to  a  stately  edifice, 
whence  we  could  go  forth  at  will 
into  statelier  simplicity !  How  gently, 
too,  did  the  sight  of  the  Old  Manse, 
65 


The  Old  Clause 

best  seen  from  the  river,  overshad 
owed  with  its  willow  and  all  envi 
roned  about  with  the  foliage  of  its 
orchard  and  avenue,  —  how  gently 
did  its  gray,  homely  aspect  rebuke 
the  speculative  extravagances  of  the 
day!  It  had  grown  sacred  in  con 
nection  with  the  artificial  life  against 
which  we  inveighed ;  it  had  been  a 
home  for  many  years  in  spite  of  all; 
it  was  my  home  too ;  and,  with  these 
thoughts,  it  seemed  to  me  that  all 
the  artifice  and  conventionalism  of 
life  was  but  an  impalpable  thinness 
upon  its  surface,  and  that  the  depth 
below  was  none  the  worse  for  it. 
Once,  as  we  turned  our  boat  to  the 
bank,  there  was  a  cloud,  in  the  shape 
of  an  immensely  gigantic  figure  of 
a  hound,  couched  above  the  house, 
66 


The 

as  if  keeping  guard  over  it.  Gaz 
ing  at  this  symbol,  I  prayed  that  the 
upper  influences  might  long  protect 
the  institutions  that  had  grown  out 
of  the  heart  of  mankind. 

If  ever  my  readers  should  de 
cide  to  give  up  civilized  life,  cities, 
houses,  and  whatever  moral  or  ma 
terial  enormities  in  addition  to  these 
the  perverted  ingenuity  of  our  race 
has  contrived,  let  it  be  in  the  early 
autumn.  Then  Nature  will  love  him 
better  than  at  any  other  season,  and 
will  take  him  to  her  bosom  with  a 
more  motherly  tenderness.  I  could 
scarcely  endure  the  roof  of  the  old 
house  above  me  in  those  first  au 
tumnal  days.  How  early  in  the 
summer,  too,  the  prophecy  of  au 
tumn  comes  !  Earlier  in  some  years 
67 


The 

than  in  others ;  sometimes  even  in 
the  first  weeks  of  July.  There  is 
no  other  feeling  like  what  is  caused 
by  this  faint,  doubtful,  yet  real  per 
ception  —  if  it  be  not  rather  a  fore 
boding —  of  the  year's  decay,  so 
blessedly  sweet  and  sad  in  the  same 
breath. 

Did  I  say  that  there  was  no  feel 
ing  like  it  ?  Ah,  but  there  is  a  half- 
acknowledged  melancholy  like  to  this 
when  we  stand  in  the  perfected  vigor 
of  our  life  and  feel  that  Time  has  now 
given  us  all  his  flowers,  and  that  the 
next  work  of  his  never  idle  fingers 
must  be  to  steal  them  one  by  one 
away. 

I  have  forgotten  whether  the  song 
of  the  cricket  be  not  as  early  a  token 
of  autumn's  approach  as  any  other, 
68 


The 

— that  song  which  may  be  called  an 
audible  stillness ;  for  though  very 
loud  and  heard  afar,  yet  the  mind 
does  not  take  note  of  it  as  a  sound, 
so  completely  is  its  individual  exist 
ence  merged  among  the  accompa 
nying  characteristics  of  the  season. 
Alas  for  the  pleasant  summer  time  ! 
In  August  the  grass  is  still  verdant 
on  the  hills  and  in  the  valleys;  the 
foliage  of  the  trees  is  as  dense  as 
ever,  and  as  green ;  the  flowers  gleam 
forth  in  richer  abundance  along  the 
margin  of  the  river,  and  by  the  stone 
walls,  and  deep  among  the  woods ; 
the  days,  too,  are  as  fervid  now  as 
they  were  a  month  ago ;  and  yet  in 
every  breath  of  wind  and  in  every 
beam  of  sunshine  we  hear  the  whis 
pered  farewell  and  behold  the  part- 
69 


The 

ing  smile  of  a  dear  friend.  There  is  a 
coolness  amid  all  the  heat,  a  mildness 
in  the  blazing  noon.  Not  a  breeze 
can  stir  but  it  thrills  us  with  the 
breath  of  autumn.  A  pensive  glory 
is  seen  in  the  far  golden  gleams, 
among  the  shadows  of  the  trees.  The 
flowers — even  the  brightest  of  them, 
and  they  are  the  most  gorgeous  of 
the  year — have  this  gentle  sadness 
wedded  to  their  pomp,  and  typify 
the  character  of  the  delicious  time 
each  within  itself.  The  brilliant  car 
dinal  flower  has  never  seemed  gay 
to  me. 

Still  later  in  the  season  Nature's 
tenderness  waxes  stronger.  It  is  im 
possible  not  to  be  fond  of  our  mother 
now ;  for  she  is  so  fond  of  us  !  At 
other  periods  she  does  not  make 
70 


The  Old  Clause 

this  impression  on  me,  or  only  at 
rare  intervals;  but  in  those  genial 
days  of  autumn,  when  she  has  per 
fected  her  harvests  and  accomplished 
every  needful  thing  that  was  given 
her  to  do,  then  she  overflows  with 
a  blessed  superfluity  of  love.  She 
has  leisure  to  caress  her  children 
now.  It  is  good  to  be  alive  at  such 
times.  Thank  Heaven  for  breath  — 
yes,  for  mere  breath  —  when  it  is 
made  up  of  a  heavenly  breeze  like 
this !  It  comes  with  a  real  kiss  upon 
our  cheeks;  it  would  linger  fondly 
around  us  if  it  might ;  but,  since  it 
must  be  gone,  it  embraces  us  with  its 
whole  kindly  heart  and  passes  on 
ward  to  embrace  likewise  the  next 
thing  that  it  meets.  A  blessing  is 
flung  abroad  and  scattered  far  and 


The  Old  Cla 

wide  over  the  earth,  to  be  gath 
ered  up  by  all  who  choose.  I  re 
cline  upon  the  still  unwithered  grass 
and  whisper  to  myself,  "  O  perfect 
day !  O  beautiful  world !  O  benefi 
cent  God!"  And  it  is  the  promise 
of  a  blessed  eternity;  for  our  Creator 
would  never  have  made  such  lovely 
days  and  have  given  us  the  deep 
hearts  to  enjoy  them,  above  and  be 
yond  all  thought,  unless  we  were 
meant  to  be  immortal.  This  sunshine 
is  the  golden  pledge  thereof.  It 
beams  through  the  gates  of  paradise 
and  shows  us  glimpses  far  inward. 

By  and  by,  in  a  little  time,  the  out 
ward  world  puts  on  a  drear  auster 
ity.  On  some  October  morning  there 
is  a  heavy  hoar-frost  on  the  grass 
and  along  the  tops  of  the  fences ; 
72 


The  Old  Clause 

and  at  sunrise  the  leaves  fall  from  the 
trees  of  our  avenue  without  a  breath 
of  wind,  quietly  descending  by  their 
own  weight.  All  summer  long  they 
have  murmured  like  the  noise  of  wa 
ters  ;  they  have  roared  loudly  while 
the  branches  were  wrestling  with  the 
thunder  gust ;  they  have  made  mu 
sic  both  glad  and  solemn ;  they  have 
attuned  my  thoughts  by  their  quiet 
sound  as  I  paced  to  and  fro  beneath 
the  arch  of  intermingling  boughs. 
Now  they  can  only  rustle  under  my 
feet.  Henceforth  the  gray  parsonage 
begins  to  assume  a  larger  import 
ance,  and  draws  to  its  fireside,  —  for 
the  abomination  of  the  air-tight  stove 
is  reserved  till  wintry  weather,  — 
draws  closer  and  closer  to  its  fire 
side  the  vagrant  impulses  that  had 
73 


The  Old  Clause 

gone  wandering  about  through  the 
summer. 

When  summer  was  dead  and  bur 
ied  the  Old  Manse  became  as  lone 
ly  as  a  hermitage.  Not  that  ever  — 
in  my  time  at  least  —  it  had  been 
thronged  with  company ;  but,  at  no 
rare  intervals,  we  welcomed  some 
friend  out  of  the  dusty  glare  and 
tumult  of  the  world,  and  rejoiced 
to  share  with  him  the  transparent 
obscurity  that  was  floating  over  us. 
In  one  respect  our  precincts  were 
like  the  Enchanted  Ground  through 
which  the  pilgrim  travelled  on  his 
way  to  the  Celestial  City !  The 
guests,  each  and  all,  felt  a  slumber 
ous  influence  upon  them  ;  they  fell 
asleep  in  chairs,  or  took  a  more  de 
liberate  siesta  on  the  sofa,  or  were 
74 


The  Old  Clause 

seen  stretched  among  the  shadows 
of  the  orchard,  looking  up  dream 
ily  through  the  boughs.  They  could 
not  have  paid  a  more  acceptable  com 
pliment  to  my  abode,  nor  to  my 
own  qualities  as  a  host.  I  held  it  as 
a  proof  that  they  left  their  cares  be 
hind  them  as  they  passed  between 
the  stone  gate-posts  at  the  entrance 
of  our  avenue,  and  that  the  so  power 
ful  opiate  was  the  abundance  of  peace 
and  quiet  within  and  all  around  us. 
Others  could  give  them  pleasure  and 
amusement  or  instruction  —  these 
could  be  picked  up  anywhere  ;  but 
it  was  for  me  to  give  them  rest  — 
rest  in  a  life  of  trouble.  What  bet 
ter  could  be  done  for  those  weary 
and  world -worn  spirits?  — for  him 
whose  career  of  perpetual  action  was 
75 


The  Old<JManse 

impeded  and  harassed  by  the  rarest 
of  his  powers  and  the  richest  of  his 
acquirements  ?  —  for  another  who 
had  thrown  his  ardent  heart  from 
earliest  youth  into  the  strife  of  pol 
itics,  and  now,  perchance,  began 
to  suspect  that  one  lifetime  is  too 
brief  for  the  accomplishment  of  any 
lofty  aim  ?  —  for  her  on  whose  femi 
nine  nature  had  been  imposed  the 
heavy  gift  of  intellectual  power,  such 
as  a  strong  man  might  have  stag 
gered  under,  and  with  it  the  ne 
cessity  to  act  upon  the  world  ?  —  in 
a  word,  not  to  multiply  instances, 
what  better  could  be  done  for  any 
body  who  came  within  our  magic 
circle  than  to  throw  the  spell  of  a 
tranquil  spirit  over  him  ?  And  when 
it  had  wrought  its  full  effect,  then  we 
76 


The  Old  Clause 

dismissed  him,  with  but  misty  remi 
niscences,  as  if  he  had  been  dream 
ing  of  us. 

Were  I  to  adopt  a  pet  idea,  as  so 
many  people  do,  and  fondle  it  in 
my  embraces  to  the  exclusion  of  all 
others,  it  would  be,  that  the  great 
want  which  mankind  labors  under 
at  this  present  period  is  sleep.  The 
world  should  recline  its  vast  head 
on  the  first  convenient  pillow  and 
take  an  age-long  nap.  It  has  gone 
distracted  through  a  morbid  activ 
ity,  and,  while  preternaturally  wide 
awake,  is  nevertheless  tormented  by 
visions  that  seem  real  to  it  now,  but 
would  assume  their  true  aspect  and 
character  were  all  things  once  set 
right  by  an  interval  of  sound  repose. 
This  is  the  only  method  of  getting  rid 
77 


The  Old^Lanse 

of  old  delusions  and  avoiding  new 
ones ;  of  regenerating  our  race,  so 
that  it  might  in  due  time  awake  as  an 
infant  out  of  dewy  slumber ;  of  re 
storing  to  us  the  simple  perception  of 
what  is  right,  and  the  single-hearted 
desire  to  achieve  it,  both  of  which 
have  long  been  lost  in  consequence 
of  this  weary  activity  of  brain  and 
torpor  or  passion  of  the  heart  that 
now  afflict  the  universe.  Stimulants, 
the  only  mode  of  treatment  hitherto 
attempted,  cannot  quell  the  disease ; 
they  do  but  heighten  the  delirium. 

Let  not  the  above  paragraph  ever 
be  quoted  against  the  author;  for, 
though  tinctured  with  its  modicum  of 
truth,  it  is  the  result  and  expression 
of  what  he  knew,  while  he  was  writ 
ing,  to  be  but  a  distorted  survey  of 
78 


The  Old^Manse 

the  state  and  prospects  of  mankind. 
There  were  circumstances  around 
me  which  made  it  difficult  to  view  the 
world  precisely  as  it  exists;  for,  se 
vere  and  sober  as  was  the  Old  Manse, 
it  was  necessary  to  go  but  a  little  way 
beyond  its  threshold  before  meeting 
with  stranger  moral  shapes  of  men 
than  might  have  been  encountered 
elsewhere  in  a  circuit  of  a  thousand 
miles. 

These  hobgoblins  of  flesh  and 
blood  were  attracted  thither  by  the 
wide  spreading  influence  of  a  great 
original  thinker,  who  had  his  earthly 
abode  at  the  opposite  extremity  of 
our  village.  His  mind  acted  upon 
other  minds  of  a  certain  constitution 
with  wonderful  magnetism,  and  drew 
many  men  upon  long  pilgrimages  to 
79 


The  Old  Clause 

speak  with  him  face  to  face.  Young 
visionaries  —  to  whom  just  so  much 
of  insight  had  been  imparted  as  to 
make  life  all  a  labyrinth  around  them 

—  came  to  seek  the  clew  that  should 
guide  them  out  of  their  self-involved 
bewilderment.  Grayheaded  theorists 

—  whose  systems,  at  first  air,  had 
finally  imprisoned  them  in  an  iron 
frame- work — travelled  painfully  to 
his  door,  not  to  ask  deliverance,  but 
to  invite  the  free  spirit  into  their  own 
thraldom.    People  that  had  lighted 
on  a  new  thought,  or  a  thought  that 
they  fancied  new,  came  to  Emer 
son,  as   the   finder  of  a  glittering 
gem  hastens  to  a  lapidary,  to  ascer 
tain  its  quality  and  value.   Uncertain, 
troubled,  earnest  wanderers  through 
the  midnight  of  the  moral  world  be- 
So 


The  Old  Clause 

held  his  intellectual  fire  as  a  beacon 
burning  on  a  hill  -  top,  and,  climb 
ing  the  difficult  ascent,  looked  forth 
into  the  surrounding  obscurity  more 
hopefully  than  hitherto.  The  light 
revealed  objects  unseen  before, — 
mountains,  gleaming  lakes,  glimpses 
of  a  creation  among  the  chaos ;  but, 
also,  as  was  unavoidable,  it  attracted 
bats  and  owls  and  the  whole  host  of 
night  birds,  which  flapped  their  dusky 
wings  against  the  gazer's  eyes,  and 
sometimes  were  mistaken  for  fowls 
of  angelic  feather.  Such  delusions 
always  hover  nigh  whenever  a  bea 
con  fire  of  truth  is  kindled. 

For  myself,  there  had  been  epochs 

of  my  life  when  I,  too,  might  have 

asked  of  this  prophet  the  master  word 

that  should  solve  me  the  riddle  of  the 

81 


The  Old  Cl 

universe  ;  but  now,  being  happy,  I 
felt  as  if  there  were  no  question  to 
be  put,  and  therefore  admired  Em 
erson  as  a  poet  of  deep  beauty  and 
austere  tenderness,  but  sought  no 
thing  from  him  as  a  philosopher.  It 
was  good,  nevertheless,  to  meet  him 
in  the  woodpaths,  or  sometimes  in  our 
avenue,  with  that  pure  intellectual 
gleam  diffused  about  his  presence 
like  the  garment  of  a  shining  one ; 
and  he  so  quiet,  so  simple,  so  with 
out  pretension,  encountering  each 
man  alive  as  if  expecting  to  receive 
more  than  he  could  impart.  And, 
in  truth,  the  heart  of  many  an  ordi 
nary  man  had,  perchance,  inscriptions 
which  he  could  not  read.  But  it  was 
impossible  to  dwell  in  his  vicinity 
without  inhaling  more  or  less  the 
82 


The 

mountain  atmosphere  of  his  lofty 
thought,  which,  in  the  brains  of  some 
people,  wrought  a  singular  giddi 
ness,  —  new  truth  being  as  heady  as 
new  wine.  Never  was  a  poor  little 
country  village  infested  with  such  a 
variety  of  queer,  strangely -dressed, 
oddly  -  behaved  mortals,  most  of 
whom  took  upon  themselves  to  be 
important  agents  of  the  world's  des 
tiny,  yet  were  simply  bores  of  a  very 
intense  water.  Such,  I  imagine,  is 
the  invariable  character  of  persons 
who  crowd  so  closely  about  an  ori 
ginal  thinker  as  to  draw  in  his  unut- 
tered  breath  and  thus  become  imbued 
with  a  false  originality.  This  trite 
ness  of  novelty  is  enough  to  make  any 
man  of  common  sense  blaspheme  at 
all  ideas  of  less  than  a  century's  stand- 
83 


The  Old  Cl 

ing,  and  pray  that  the  world  may  be 
petrified  and  rendered  immovable  in 
precisely  the  worst  moral  and  phy 
sical  state  that  it  ever  yet  arrived 
at,  rather  than  be  benefited  by  such 
schemes  of  such  philosophers. 

And  now  I  begin  to  feel  —  and 
perhaps  should  have  sooner  felt  — 
that  we  have  talked  enough  of  the 
Old  Manse.  Mine  honored  reader, 
it  may  be,  will  vilify  the  poor  author 
as  an  egotist  for  babbling  through 
so  many  pages  about  a  moss-grown 
country  parsonage,  and  his  life  with 
in  its  walls  and  on  the  river  and  in 
the  woods,  and  the  influences  that 
wrought  upon  him  from  all  these 
sources.  My  conscience,  however, 
does  not  reproach  me  with  betray 
ing  anything  too  sacredly  individual 
84 


The 

to  be  revealed  by  a  human  spirit  to 
its  brother  or  sister  spirit.  How  nar 
row — how  shallow  and  scanty  too — 
is  the  stream  of  thought  that  has  been 
flowing  from  my  pen,  compared  with 
the  broad  tide  of  dim  emotions,  ideas, 
and  associations  which  swell  around 
me  from  that  portion  of  my  exist 
ence  !  How  little  have  I  told  !  and 
of  that  little,  how  almost  nothing  is 
even  tinctured  with  any  quality  that 
makes  it  exclusively  my  own  !  Has, 
the  reader  gone  wandering,  hand  in 
hand  with  me,  through  the  inner  pas 
sages  of  my  being  ?  and  have  we 
groped  together  into  all  its  chambers 
and  examined  their  treasures  or  their 
rubbish  ?  Not  so.  We  have  been 
standing  on  the  greensward,  but  just 
within  the  cavern's  mouth,  where  the 
85 


The 

common  sunshine  is  free  to  penetrate, 
and  where  every  footstep  is  there 
fore  free  to  come.  I  have  appealed 
to  no  sentiment  or  sensibilities  save 
such  as  are  diffused  among  us  all. 
So  far  as  I  am  a  man  of  really  indi 
vidual  attributes,  I  veil  my  face ;  nor 
am  I,  nor  have  I  ever  been,  one  of 
those  supremely  hospitable  people 
who  serve  up  their  own  hearts,  del 
icately  fried,,  with  brain  sauce,  as  a 
tidbit  for  their  beloved  public. 

Glancing  back  over  what  I  have 
written,  it  seems  but  the  scattered 
reminiscences  of  a  single  summer.  In 
fairyland  there  is  no  measurement 
of  time ;  and,  in  a  spot  so  sheltered 
from  the  turmoil  of  life's  ocean,  three 
years  hastened  away  with  a  noise 
less  flight,  as  the  breezy  sunshine 
86 


The  Old^JManse 

chases  the  cloud  shadows  across  the 
depths  of  a  still  valley.  Now  came 
hints,  growing  more  and  more  dis 
tinct,  that  the  owner  of  the  old  house 
was  pining  for  his  native  air.  Car 
penters  next  appeared,  making  a  tre 
mendous  racket  among  the  outbuild 
ings,  strewing  the  green  grass  with 
pine  shavings  and  chips  of  chestnut 
joists,  and  vexing  the  whole  anti 
quity  of  the  place  with  their  discord 
ant  renovations.  Soon,  moreover, 
they  divested  our  abode  of  the  veil 
of  woodbine  which  had  crept  over  a 
large  portion  of  its  southern  face. 
All  the  aged  mosses  were  cleared  un 
sparingly  away;  and  there  were  hor 
rible  whispers  about  brushing  up  the 
external  walls  with  a  coat  of  paint 
—  a  purpose  as  little  to  my  taste 
87 


The  Old  Cla 

as  might  be  that  of  rouging  the  ven 
erable  cheeks  of  one's  grandmother. 
But  the  hand  that  renovates  is  always 
more  sacrilegious  than  that  which 
destroys.  In  fine,  we  gathered  up 
our  household  goods,  drank  a  fare 
well  cup  of  tea  in  our  pleasant  little 
breakfast  room, — delicately  fragrant 
tea,  an  unpurchasable  luxury,  one  of 
the  many  angel  gifts  that  had  fallen 
like  dew  upon  us, — and  passed  forth 
between  the  tall  stone  gateposts  as 
uncertain  as  the  wandering  Arabs 
where  our  tent  might  next  be  pitched. 
Providence  took  me  by  the  hand,  and 
—  an  oddity  of  dispensation  which, 
I  trust,  there  is  no  irreverence  in 
smiling  at — has  led  me,  as  the  news 
papers  announce  while  I  am  writing, 
from  the  Old  Manse  into  a  custom 
88 


The  Old  Clause 

house.  As  a  story  teller,  I  have  often 
contrived  strange  vicissitudes  for  my 
imaginary  personages,  but  none  like 
this. 


FINIS 


89 


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